𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟤
𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓈𝒽/𝒹𝓊𝒻𝒻 𝓂𝒸𝓀𝒶𝑔𝒶𝓃 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
𝓓𝓾𝓯𝓯
i wrote my fic according to this story BUT NOT THE ACTUAL AGE <333
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Seattle, late summer 1979
the rain was threatening but holding off, the kind of Seattle night where the streetlights buzzed like angry bees and every corner smelled like wet asphalt and cigarette smoke.
Duff—actually Michael for now—teenager and already too tall, too skinny is now slouched against the wall outside the bar after the show. his borrowed leather jacket (his brother's) hung off him like an armor. blond hair falling in his eyes. heart pounding from the mosh pit or maybe just from spotting her again
Lisa.
or Lise. whatever she's called. eighteen, record-store goddess that he met few weeks ago and she lent him her favorite record. she'd been there, front and center, laughing that sweet laugh that made his stomach twist. after the last band finished, she'd grabbed his wrist through the dispersing crowd "Hey, kid. Still got my Dury single?"
he'd shoved it into her hand like it burned "Yeah. It's... yeah. Killer"
she'd tilted her head, smirking "Come back to mine. Roommate's gone. We can listen to it properly"
his brain froze
We can listen to it properly
he knew that it's his last and only chance to spend some time with her alone
so they walked the few blocks in charged silence broken by her chatter—how the scene was slowly dying under pressure, how she'd hitchhiked to see the Clash in '78 and almost got arrested, how Ian Dury was the only one who really knows how to do music
Duff nodded, grunted, tried not to stare at the way her hips moved in those tight black jeans. his palms were sweaty. he wiped them on his thighs when she wasn't looking
her apartment was a third-floor, stairs creaking like old bones. door had a peeling sticker of the Anarchy symbol crossed out with lipstick.
inside: chaos in the best way. walls drowning in posters—Clash cassettes, Siouxsie posters, a massive collection of Ian Dury. the record player stood on a milk crate next to piles of singles threatening to topple over. the sofa sagged under the weight of second-hand blankets. the red light bulb in the lamp made everything look bloody and warm
she kicked the door shut "Ya want some beer?"
he nodded too fast. she handed him a warm beer. he cracked it, took a swing, pretended he liked the taste
"Make yourself comfortable" she smiled as she went straight to the record player and put there the record she lent him before. dropped the needle
Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick exploded into the room
Lisa swayed a little, eyes half-closed "This song's obscene and perfect"
she dropped onto the couch beside him. thigh to thigh. heat radiating "The title? Fucking poetry"
he barked a nervous laugh "Yeah. what even is a rhythm stick?"
she leaned closer. knee brushing his “you tell me, kid”
they talked. bands. blockheads live shows. duff talked about basement jams with “his band” (in reality it was just him and his brothers bass). beer loosened the knots in his chest. song ended. she flipped it. played it again. bass pulsing in time with his heartbeat
she turned to face him and saw his hands still shaking a little, smirk playing on her lips "You nervous, kid?"
"I'm not a kid" he muttered but his voice cracked on the last word
she leaned in, her hand brushing his "You’re cute when you’re trying to act all tough"
then her lips crashed into his—soft at first, then hungry. strawberry lip gloss and cigarette smoke and beer. Duff's hands hovered like he didn't know where to put them. she grabbed one, placed it on her waist. he squeezed. she kissed harder. his head spun like crazy
the song looped Hit me! Hit me! Hit me with your rhythm stick...
she pulled back just enough to breathe "Come on, to my bedroom"
he followed on shaky legs. bedroom was smaller, messier. unmade bed. lava lamp bubbling red. more posters. she pushed him down onto the mattress. straddled him. his leather jacket hit the floor. his t-shirt next. hers
her hands were sure. he was awkward as hell. his fingers trembling as he fumbled with her belt buckle. she laughed softly
"Easy, tiger. Let me"
she guided him—slow, patient, teasing. jeans slid off. then underwear. the air was thick, electric
the record kept playing through the open door
"First time?" she whispered
tiny nod
"Cute" smile against his mouth "We’ll go slow"
she eased down. he gasped—sharp, surprised sound. overwhelming. hot. tight. she moved slow like she said, rocking, finding rhythm. his hands gripped her hips like lifelines. she leaned forward, hair falling in curtains around their faces. whispered filthy encouragements in his ear "That's it... just like that... feel me..."
he tried to match her. clumsy thrusts turning smoother. sweat slicking skin. sharp breaths. the song hit the chorus again and she laughed—breathless, wicked "God, the timing..."
he couldn't speak. just groaned
it built fast. too fast. he warned her, voice cracking "I'm—"
she kissed him hard "Come on, let go"
he did. stars behind his eyes. she followed seconds later, shuddering, nails digging into his shoulders
they collapsed. tangled. panting. the needle scratched to silence at last
she rolled off, lit a Marlboro. offered him the pack. he took one, hands still shaking. inhaled. coughed. she laughed
"That was... insane" he rasped
she exhaled smoke toward the ceiling "Welcome to the big leagues" poked his chest "You're not a virgin anymore"
he grinned, dazed "Kinda weird"
this one is based on Slash's book SO AGAIN DON'T HATE ON ME HE WROTE IT OKAY
///
𝓢𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓱
the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old building settling. your bedroom was at the far end of the short hallway—small, cluttered, walls painted a faded bubblegum pink you’d begged for when you were eight. posters of Cheerleader teams were taped crookedly above the bed. a lava lamp bubbled lazily on the dresser, casting slow pink blobs across the ceiling. the door was shut but not locked; it had been broken for months
your mom was out cold on the living-room couch again. she’d finished the glass of orange juice with some meds, muttered something about her feet hurting and was snoring softly within fifteen minutes. Slash— more like Saul back then— had been waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall in his ripped jeans, chewing his lip like he was trying not to look as nervous as he felt
you were both young teenagers. neither of you had done this before—not really. a few fumbling hand-jobs in the back of someone’s car, some dry-humping when no one was looking but never all the way. never like today
you tugged him inside your room by the sleeve of his leather jacket. the door clicked shut behind him. the space felt smaller with him in it—all long legs and wild black curls spilling everywhere. he stood there awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets
“You sure she’s out?” he whispered
“Yeah. Snoring like a chainsaw”
he nodded, swallowed hard “Okay. Cool”
you sat on the edge of the bed. the mattress dipped under your weight. he hesitated, then sat beside you—close enough that your thighs touched. for a second you just breathed, the silence thick with everything you weren’t saying
“I’ve never…You know” you started, voice barely audible
“Me neither” he admitted fast, like he was relieved to get it out
that made you both laugh—short, nervous bursts that died quick
he reached over, fingers brushing your knee, then sliding up to your thigh. his hand was shaking a little. yours was too when you put it on his chest, feeling his heart slamming under the thin black t-shirt
he leaned in first. the kiss was clumsy but then he tilted his head, figured it out and it got better. slower
you tugged at his shirt. he helped you pull it over his head. his skin was warm. no muscle definition yet—just skinny teenage boy. you traced the line of his ribs with your fingertips. he shivered
“Your turn” he mumbled against your lips
you lifted your arms. he peeled your shirt off slowly, like he was unwrapping something fragile. when your bra was exposed—a plain white one with a little bow—he stared for a second too long, cheeks flushing
“Pretty” he said, voice cracking on the word
you smiled shyly and unhooked it yourself, let it fall. his eyes went wide. he reached out, hesitated, then cupped one breast gently, thumb brushing the nipple. it pebbled instantly. you gasped—louder than you meant to—and he froze
“Sorry—too much?”
“N-no. Feels… good”
encouraged, he leaned down and kissed there—soft at first, then a tentative lick. you arched, fingers threading into his hair. he groaned against your skin, the vibration making you squirm
the rest of the clothes came off awkwardly. jeans got stuck on his sneakers; you both giggled trying to kick them free. your shorts and panties ended up tangled at your ankles. when you were both naked, you lay back on the bed. the sheets were cool against your heated skin
he hovered over you, bracing on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush you. his cock was hard, flushed dark, brushing your thigh. you reached down, wrapped your fingers around him—careful, unsure. he hissed through his teeth
“Fuck—wait, slow. I’m… I might—”
you quickly loosened your grip scared. he exhaled shakily
“Sorry. I'm just… really turned on”
“Me too” you whispered “I think”
he kissed you again—deeper this time—while his hand slid between your legs. fingers explored clumsily at first, spreading wetness, finding your clit by accident more than skill. you jolted when he touched it right, moaned into his mouth
“There?” he asked, circling again
“Yeah—yeah, like that”
he kept going, awkward but earnest, watching your face like it was the most important thing he’d ever seen. you rocked against his hand, breath hitching
“I want…” you started, cheeks burning “You inside... Please”
“O-Okay” he nodded fast. positioned himself between your thighs. one hand guided him. he pushed—just the tip—and you both froze
“Ow—” you breathed
he stopped instantly “You okay? Should I—”
“No—keep going. Just… slower”
he did. inch by inch, wincing every time you tensed. it burned, stretched, felt too full and strange. tears pricked your eyes. he noticed, paused again
“We can stop” he said seriously “We don’t have to do this today if it hurts y—”
“I want to” you pulled him closer with your legs “Just… kiss me”
he did—soft, distracting kisses along your jaw, your neck. when he was all the way in, hips flush, you both let out shaky breaths
“Holy shit” he whispered “You feel… insane. So warm”
you laughed weakly “You too”
he started moving—tiny, careful thrusts. nothing big, just experimenting, finding what made you gasp instead of wince. you wrapped your arms around his back, nails digging in lightly. the bed creaked faintly under you
after a minute he found a rhythm—shallow, steady. pleasure started building over the discomfort. you tilted your hips and he hit something that made stars burst behind your eyes
“Ah—!” you gasped “There”
he focused on that spot, breath ragged against your ear “Like this?”
“Yes—fuck, yes”
his hand slipped between you again, thumb fumbling for your clit. he rubbed too hard at first, you guided him gentler. then it clicked. heat coiled tight in your belly
“I think I’m—” you started
“Me too” he panted “Can’t—fuck—”
you came first—sudden, sharp, clenching around him. your thighs shook; you buried your face in his neck to muffle the cry. he followed right after—two, three erratic thrusts, then he groaned low, spilling inside you in hot pulses. his whole body trembled
for a long minute you just held each other, sweaty and breathless, hearts hammering in sync
he pulled out carefully, wincing at the sensitivity. you both cleaned up with tissues from your nightstand—quiet, awkward, giggling when he almost knocked over his own pants
he flopped beside you, arm slung over your waist “Was that… okay?”
you turned to face him, smiling despite the slight ache between your legs “Yeah. More than oka.”
he grinned—crooked, shy “Good. ‘Cause I wanna do it again. Like… soon”
you laughed softly “Me too”
he kissed your forehead, then reached for the blanket and pack of cigarettes